


Open Up My Eager Eyes

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Image, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Lyrics, Rimming, Sam is 15, Sibling Incest, Song Parody, You'll see what I mean, just inspired by a song, not a song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months ago, the end began with a kiss. Sam tells himself to look on the bright side. (Inspired by The Killers. >> It's been brought to my attention that the song is about cheating, but I never saw it that way, so this fic is my interpretation.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Up My Eager Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Bath Time #6 is giving me fits, so, here. Have some lyric-inspired Weecest that's been languishing unfinished in my Dropbox since May.

Two months, six days, thirteen hours and fifty seven minutes ago, Sam Winchester kissed his brother full on the mouth. With tongue.

Well, technically, Dean kissed him.

It was Sam's first kiss ever, but Dean doesn't know that. He doesn't even know it happened. He was drunk as a skunk and thought Sam was a girl.

Sam can never tell him. Doesn't even want to tell him.

... okay, so maybe he does. A little.

A lot.

And maybe Sam dreamed it would go differently. He's never held out much hope, but he's had a few treasured daydreams where a sober and eager Dean kisses him back with strong, scarred hands threading through Sam's hair, pulling just hard enough to sting.

Maybe he's had more than a few daydreams. Extended fantasies. And they don't usually end with just kissing.

Most of Sam's shower adventures since he first discovered his dick have involved Dean's lips, Dean's hands, and Dean's --

Um.

Okay, so what if Sam hasn't really seen it? Not like _that_ , anyway -- but growing up the way they have, no personal space to speak of, he's seen enough.

He can imagine that gorgeous cock flushed red and aching, dripping precome, practically begging to be shoved between his lips.

He can imagine Dean stricken, gaping, none of his usual quips coming to a mind overwhelmed with need.

Sam dreams of Dean begging in broken syllables, of flicking his tongue up Dean's hard shaft, along the head. Suckling til his lips numbed. Taking all that fat length down his throat, the way he totally hasn't tried with bananas in those rare moments when no one else is around.

There isn't a lot of porn available to a fifteen-year-old boy with an overbearing father and a nosy older sibling, but Sam manages. He's learned things. He knows exactly what he'd do with that cock if he ever got it in his hand.

Anyway, back to the kiss.

It was entirely spontaneous. A late-night surge of brazen confidence, which Sam usually tried to ignore, neatly coincided with Dean being so drunk that he didn't know where he was. Marnie Thomas had dropped him off an hour ago, and he was still talking to her. Sam was getting sick of it.

"You know what," he finally snapped, whirling on his stumbling brother, socks digging into the shag carpet, "why don't you shut the fuck up and put your money where your mouth should b-- _ngh."_

That whimper at the end was as unsolicited as Dean's whiskey-bitter lips on his, but Sam didn't care. He wasn't embarrassed, he was overwhelmed. Dean's mouth moved over his smoothly despite the fumbling of Dean's hands and the rest of him pressing sweaty and liquor-soaked into Sam. The heat between them was a fire up Sam's front, lighting him up from the outside in. He was harder than he'd ever been when he touched himself.

Then Dean's tongue slid along the trembling seam of his lips, and Sam came in his pants with a jolt and a shudder.

He felt like he'd lost his mind. He was shaking, grasping at Dean, gasping and letting his brother plunder his mouth with drunken finesse. Dean's tongue was a whole new animal, stroking, darting and swirling; Sam tried to keep up.

Sam's knees were about to give out. His shorts were disgusting. Not one ounce of him cared.

Pulling away for air, he managed to gasp, "De--Dean!"

Dean mumbled, "Yeah, baby, that's it," and fell away from him, sideways on to the bed, passed out.

Suddenly bereft, Sam stared down at him, two trembling fingers pressed to tingling lips. Dean had kissed him. _Dean._  Just remembering it was getting him hard again, the tacky mess in his drawers pulling at his skin and hair.

He dashed for the bathroom and shoved his jeans straight down off his bony hips. He barely got a hand on his dick before he was coming again, teeth gritted against a moan, and it was Dean's hand, Dean's hot mouth on his skin.

Oh, God. He thought he was ruined before...

Now, two months and so many awkward moments later, Sam still can't think about that night without instantly popping wood. He's had to repress the memory so he can keep up appearances, at school and at home and especially anywhere near Dean -- because Dean has no clue, and it's safer for Sam to leave it that way.

It might cost him his sanity, but he doesn't want to risk Dean reacting badly, or in a way that's not congruent to any of Sam's fantasies. Dean could reject him. Violently. How would they continue to live in and out of one another's pockets like they always have, if Dean couldn't stand to be near him anymore?

Not to mention that any negative response would break Sam into tiny little pieces.

So, he stays quiet.

It's killing him, but there's nothing he can do about that. Not without ruining everything.

 

* * *

 

On the afternoon of day sixty-seven, Sam is doing his homework on the couch, in the living room of their current rental. He's intently focused on the American Revolution and the toner smell of his textbook when Dean saunters in, distracting as ever. He has a small blonde girl in tow. She's petite and lovely in her pleated skirt, with a Cupid's bow mouth and a generous chest.

Sam, feeling gawky and dun like the ugly duckling, instantly hates her.

Dean plops unceremoniously on the other end of the couch, and beckons the girl into his lap. To her credit, she does glance between the boys uncertainly, but she loses points overall when she says nothing and sits.

Sam can't really blame her. It is Dean, after all -- and that just makes it worse. He glares over at them.

"Can't you do that somewhere else?" he snarls.

"TV's in here, Sammy," Dean replies, one hand spanning the girl's waist in lazy possession. He leans forward, solid grip on her, to snatch up the remote. Such easy grace, the way he handles her; casually sensual. Sam tamps down on his spike of envy.

It's easier to do when his brother continues, "Can't you _homework_ somewhere else?"

Sam frowns.

The girl is watching them, wide dark eyes pulling it all in, darting side to side like she's watching a tennis match. Sam intensifies his glower. _We all know you won't be watching TV for long_ , it says.

He opens his mouth to protest again -- but he draws in air with his nose, too, and he can smell Dean, all leather and spice and arousal, a heavy musk that sits on Sam's tongue and invades all the spaces inside him.

Snapping his jaw shut, he grabs at his stuff and stands, holding it awkwardly in front of him. He's got to get out of there before Dean notices, and he practically darts for the door. There's no helping the snark that leaves his mouth on the way out, though; it's the way he's wired, growing up with Dean for a brother. "Keep it down, will you? I have a test tomorrow."

"Shut your cakehole, Sammy," Dean tosses back, distracted, one of his arms wrapped around the girl's back. From the way she's quivering, he's already working up under the pleats of her skirt. Right in front of Sam. Not a care in the freaking world.

Sam can smell her arousal, too. It clashes with Dean's.

He throws his homework on the kitchen table when he passes it on the way to his room.

"Stupid Dean," he mutters under his breath, shutting the door as quickly but quietly as he can, locking it. He's so lucky that Dad found them a big house this time, so he and Dean don't have to share a room. Sam can get this out of his system in peace.

"Stupid _girl_ ," he hisses, a little more venomously.

He flings his shirt up over his head. It's too hot. He never takes his shirt off in front of anyone if he can help it, too many scars, but in privacy he likes to feel the air dance across his skin. He'll run his fingertips over his chest, toying with his nipples, pretending his hands belong to someone else. He'll lick a finger, run it over one hardening nub, and make believe it's a questing tongue.

His jeans get tossed away, freeing his cock to strain up toward his belly in utter denial of his boxers' worn waistband. Sam shucks them, too, and grabs at himself, hissing at the touch and the warm dribble of precome like pancake syrup on his fingers.

He collapses on his bed as carefully as he can with one hand occupied, trying to prevent the springs from screeching but completely unable to let go of dick. He's so hard that it's shocking. His hand feels like rough fire, and every time he moves against the sensitive skin of his cock, he has to suck in a shuddery gasp.

Sam bucks his hips up, thrusting through a tight grip, again and again until he's found a rhythm. The springs creak, and he has to slow down until he's just writhing atop his sheets, the slow burn of it driving him crazy. He wants to _move_. He wants to fuck his hand until he comes with a scream ripping its way out of his throat.

He's sweating already, staring up at the popcorn ceiling through a haze of lust and his own sodden bangs. His skin prickles. He knows what he wants. He wants, he _needs_ more.

Two fingers find their way into his mouth, and Sam can't help moaning around them. They taste like his own skin, but in his fevered mind, they belong to Dean.

He feels so good -- but here in a minute, he's gonna feel even better. Sam slurps at his fingers until they're dripping, and then he hikes up his legs, his hips, gripping his cock even tighter as he strokes and reaches around behind. The pad of one finger circles his hole, teasing.

Moments later, Sam can't wait any long, and slides it in to the first knuckle.

Dry! Too dry, and it burns -- but he's fuller than he was before. His cock twitches, pleasure spreading from his teeth to his toes. More precome bubbles out and down the shaft. Sam massages it into his skin. He works the fingertip around, biting his lip against another moan. His hips move with his need, forcing his finger in deeper, the dull heat of it and the pain of the stretch crackling down his nerves with every jerky stroke to his dick.

Sam fucks both his hands until his chest is heaving, breaths rasping in when he draws them too fast, sweat beading and running down his face. He tosses his head. It feels so good, _so_ so good.

"Deeeann..." he whines, before he can stop himself. It's quiet, but it hangs there in the air.

Sam freezes. He's not even breathing.

Silence from the house. Sam's heart is pounding. His cock is a steel rod in his hand, his finger a welcome intruder in his ass, and he steeps in the double-edged anguish of interruption and the adrenaline of panic for the moment. He's nearly lightheaded with the effort of trying to get his breath back silently.

There's no banging on the door, no alarm being raised, and so slowly he relaxes.

His hands twitch. _You're not getting caught_ , he tells himself. _You're okay._

_Keep going._

He needs lube, though, because he wants more than just a fingertip inside.

Ever since he first discovered this by curious accident a few weeks ago, Sam has found that getting off without fucking himself with _something_ just doesn't crest that peak the way it used to. He wants to be full, wants to find that spot that makes his whole body spark. It makes him come like a freight train every time, cursing and blind, and right now that's just what he needs.

Hand still on his cock, Sam withdraws his finger and rolls over on his side, searching behind the nightstand. Cobwebs, dust bunnies, what the fuck is _that?_ There -- a small, contoured bottle.

He has to let go of himself to coat his fingers, but gets it all over both hands. When he grasps at his dick again the slide is slicker, hotter, and when Sam plunges one whole finger deep inside himself his back arches off the bed, his mouth agape, the barest wanton sound escaping his throat.

_That's -- so -- good --_

He pulls his finger out slowly, his inner walls constricting, rim clutching, and then he thrusts it right back in. Slide out, back in, over and over in a slow, graceless mime of fucking, with the pad of a second finger clumsily tracing around the first. He imagines it's a tongue.

Sam knows about rimming. He's seen still photos of it, mostly in hetero porn mags, some buff guy with his tongue dragging all along a girl's tiny little hole. The girl's face usually looks like it's the best thing ever, and Sam wants it. He wants Dean's tongue down there, circling like Sam's finger is doing right now, every movement telegraphed directly to his dick.

He's so hard. He might not find that spot before he comes all over himself. Not unless he -- _ungh_ \-- The second fingertip breaches his tender entrance, and Sam can't contain the birth of a groan. He chokes, holding back the rest of that treacherous noise. He feels so _full_. Only two fingers, but he feels stuffed to the brim, his other hand slipping over the head of his cock with its callused palm and fingers.

He draws the fingers out. He fucks them back in.

Suddenly he's jerking his cock faster, faster, the soft snick of lubed skin on skin in his ears. He bucks up into his hand, and back on the fingers that fill him. Dean's fingers, Dean's hand on his cock. Dean panting over the shell of his ear. _So good_ _,_ he would say, _feel so good around me, want to fuck you,_ thrust of fingers, deeper, searching. _Y_ _ou'd_ _look so pretty on my dick, Sammy_.

Breathing ragged, Sam arches, punches his fingers in deep and presses --

"Ah, ah, _ah!"_  he grunts as he comes all over his stomach and chest seeing nothing but stars, his cock jumping in his hand, ass spasming around his fingers. _Fuck, Dean, oh yes,_ he keens silently, mouthing the syllables he doesn't dare say. Spent breath burns in his lungs. _Dean._

_Dean..._

He comes down and back to himself in a series of shudders, slipping his fingers out of his body with a dirty, satisfied noise. "Fuck," he whispers, letting go of his cock, still half-hard and way too sensitive.

That was one of the best ones yet.

Sam lies atop his sheets for a long while after that, letting his breathing slow. Sweat and semen cool on his skin. He feels twitchy, still unsatisfied.

He can't help but picture Dean cleaning up the mess on his belly. Dean's pink tongue, darting out to lap at Sam's skin. Full-body shiver and Sam's dick jerks, wanting this, filling again at the image of Dean's eyes dark and hooded, his body a solid mass between Sam's legs. Sam rolls over and groans into his pillow, frustrated. This is part of what he hates about being a teenager. He can go right away after coming, several more times -- but goddamnit, he's _tired_.

His hips roll into the sheets. Again. It feels good, too good. Again. Again. He's humping the mattress and panting Dean's name into the pillow before he even realizes he's fully hard once more.

"God, fuck." He worms a hand between himself and the sheets. _"S_ _hit_ , Dean," the heat of his hand, _Dean's hand_ , _"ungh_ , oh, _fuck_ ," and Sam is coming, less of a load this time but enough to feel slick and nasty, and so fucking good.

Sam collapses, spent.

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Some time after dark, there's a rat-a-tat-tap on the door. Sam is instantly awake, mortified when he remembers his nakedness and the state of his bed, before he also remembers he locked the door.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice comes through the door, muffled.

"Y--" Sam clears his throat. "Yeah?"

"You hungry? I, uh --" and why does his brother sound unsure? "I made one of those pizzas. Pepperoni."

"Yeah," Sam repeats, affirmative. He's starving. "Be out in a minute!" Now, he just has to figure out how to get all this come off his stomach without a trip to the bathroom.

The remnants of a water bottle and a dirty shirt do a decent job, though he still feels the mess pulling at his skin and scant body hair under the random clothes he throws on.

 _Look on the bright side_ , he tells himself. _With two orgasms and a nap, you can almost hope to be normal at dinner._

 

* * *

 

Dean has a hickey the size of Montana right above the worn collar of his t-shirt. Sam can't stand it. He picks a stupid fight, Dean takes the bait, and Sam screams the nastiest things he can think of until his throat hurts. He stomps out of the kitchen feeling even smaller than he is.

He's still hungry, but he can't look at Dean anymore.

Sharp clanging sounds echo from the kitchen. Sam doesn't care. He pulls his pillow over his head, and hums a song he likes until he's drifting back to sleep.

Later, when Dean is either asleep or gone, Sam sneaks back into the kitchen hoping there's some food left. He finds the pizza splattered all over the wall.

He still eats a slice.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Dean makes pancakes for breakfast and tugs on Sam's hair.

The fight becomes one more of those things they don't talk about.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Dean brings home another girl, a bottle brunette.

This one is trouble.

She brings her own pack of Marlboro Reds, stashed in the pocket of her floral print dress. Since Dad won't be home to smell it for at least a week, Dean shares one with her on the back porch.

Sam watches from the kitchen, unable to look away from the way Dean's lips purse around the slender filter, the way he holds it between two fingers before flipping it 'round like a pro and passing it back. The exhalation of smoke that becomes a smirk is too much, and Sam has to turn away.

He's doing the dishes, an excuse to be at the kitchen window. He loses track of time scrubbing the casserole dish and when he looks back up, the girl is straddling Dean's lap. She's facing Sam, _she can see him_ , and when she glances up from nipping at Dean's neck, their eyes meet.

Sam is frozen, shock and dread.

The girl smirks a little and then slowly, deliberately, applies her tongue to Dean's ear. Dean shifts, reacting, biting down on the tender spot between her neck and shoulder -- his ears are very sensitive, Sam has learned. Sam bites his own lip against the sudden rush of heat through his body. He knows his want must be starkly visible on his face.

The girl's smirk deepens. She pulls away from Dean's skin, then looks down at Dean with a serious expression and says something Sam can't read. Doesn't need to, though, because in the next moment Dean is working her dress up over her head.

She's not wearing a bra. Her tits are that full kind of perky that just beg to be touched. Sam watches, transfixed, as Dean's lips attack one nipple, his fingers the other, working them into hard little nubs. The girl is enjoying it, evidenced by the flush over her cheekbones -- but she's watching _Sam_.

Sam, who can feel what he's seeing on his own flat chest, Dean's nimble fingers plucking at his nerves and playing him like a harp.

He needs to escape, and fast.

His flight response is building, willing his legs to move, but his feet are rooted to the floor. He's gripping the counter so tight it ought to have cracked. He can't even breathe when the girl runs her fingers through the short hairs on the back of Dean's neck, holds him close, and grinds down hard on his lap.

Dean's whole body shudders. He's panting.

Sam can feel those breaths on his own skin, puffs of humid heat.

He might actually die.

Oh, but this devil of a girl isn't done. She's reaching between them, her right arm working. Dean sits back, bracing her, she's raising up on her knees -- "Oh, _god_ ," Sam groans, grinding his dick into the cabinets -- and she's sinking down, her lips parting slack on what must be a throaty moan that Dean obviously echoes when his head tips back, his fingers tightening on her skin.

She rises, and falls.

Rides.

Dean's hands slide into her hair, tangling and tugging her down into what looks like one filthy kiss. Wide open, eating at one another. The girl is undulating her entire body up and down on Dean's cock. She breaks the kiss, tossing her head back.

Sam's whole body is on fire.

There's no blood left in his veins that hasn't rushed to his dick. He can barely hold himself up. His overactive imagination has substituted his own lanky frame over the girl's, and he feels Dean's cock filling him the way his fingers do only _more_ , catching and tugging and filling him perfectly. His knees ache like he's actually out there, flinging his head back and arching against Dean's hands, picking up the pace until he's bouncing and Dean is meeting him thrust for thrust, the sharp spurs of his hips digging into the the backs of Sam's thighs. Dean's cock would fill him so completely, and _so so so good_ \--

Sam is gasping, coming, grabbing onto the counter so hard his knuckles pop. His ass clenches, empty and wanting. The girl watches the whole thing from where she's grinding over Dean with his face pressed into her chest. Sam can feel her gaze.

He meets it as he's winding down, panting. It's obvious what just happened. He can't even tell what expression is on his face.

The girl's head bobs in a little nod. Her body jerks, Dean grabbing at her and taking her at a faster pace, thrusting up into her with all the strength he has until her eyes roll back in her head and her mouth goes slack. She gets loud, being fucked so well, so loud that Sam can hear her keening through the closed window. He imagines he can hear Dean groaning, too, even though Dean is usually too quiet to hear. A hunter fucks like he moves on the job; efficient and thorough, but silent.

There's nothing Sam can do but stagger away before Dean comes. That's the last thing he needs to see.

 

* * *

 

He's perched on his bed, staring at nothing. Maybe he's tracing the floorboards, maybe the cracks in between. His head feels heavy. It hurts to think.

He wants his brother more badly than he's ever needed to breathe.

It makes Sam want to tear his hair out, but instead he sits, fists clenched tight to his thighs. He sits, and eventually he hears Dean and the girl come in from out back. Dean's voice, hushed and deep, hers giggling darkly. They slam into the wall at one point. She moans.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, and tears spring to his eyes.

The couple makes it to Dean's bedroom. Sam hears the bed protest beneath their combined weight. When the rhythmic creaking starts, everything wells up in his chest, and he knows he has to get the hell out of this house before he does something stupid.

A scream wells up in his chest, but Sam can be silent. He's a hunter, too.

His vision smears as he packs up his backpack. The note he scribbles and leaves in the kitchen might not even be legible, since he can barely see, but he leaves it anyway. He makes sure to slam the door on his way out, though he imagines there's no lull in the sound of bedsprings.

He changed into clean jeans, of course, but he still feels dirty. Small. Unwanted. He thinks about leaving town, about getting on a bus and riding until the conductor finds him and kicks him off -- but Sam isn't stupid. He knows that John would track him down, and that his disappearance would be taken out on Dean. He couldn't live with that.

He spends the day in the park instead, scribbling angry nonsense that he burns behind a bush before he leaves.

 _Look on the bright side_ , he tells himself. _Dean is probably gonna be there when you get back_.

 

* * *

 

The sun is setting. Sam looks up from his trudging and sees their porch, painted in the rich tones of dying daylight. He pushes the front door open with a silent sigh.

Instantly, he knows the house is too quiet. There's none of the sounds from before, but neither are there little innocuous noises like the TV blaring or Dean banging around in the kitchen, or Dean being Dean anywhere.

Dean isn't here.

Sam pokes his head into the kitchen. The note he left is right where he left it, skewed on the kitchen table. Now clearheaded, he looks at it again.

 _Library, or somewhere_ , it says, barely legible. _Don't fucking look for me_. The word _fucking_ is just a scrawl, but it's obvious enough. Sam doesn't remember writing that, but he was pissed off. Crying like a little kid.

He hates himself even more just then.

Stowing his backpack in his bedroom, Sam makes a sandwich and plops in front of the TV. There's nothing interesting on any of the seven channels they get, but he makes do with a news documentary about crime in upstate New York. 'Suburban terrorism', they call it. Sam snorts wheat crumbs up his nose in derision, and almost chokes. Like the victims of plain old B&Es know what it means to be truly terrified.

He remembers the hunt that tore up his side. One more step, and he would have been ripped in half instead of open. Not that technicalities made any difference to their dad. Sam hasn't felt welcome on a hunt ever since, and the feeling solidifies every time John makes them stay behind.

Sam might feel sorry for Dean, forced to babysit his younger brother, if some awful selfish part of him wasn't so glad to have Dean all to himself.

Just when the reenactment on TV reaches its crescendo, the front door bangs open and Sam jumps a mile, toppling his sandwich plate on to the floor. His fingers grope at the cargo pocket on his jeans for the knife he keeps there -- _always_ , Dad says, and Sam listens when it could save his life. Always carry a blade.

It's only Dean, of course.

Sam relaxes slightly, but tenses right back up when Dean staggers as he rounds the corner of the couch. He's so drunk he doesn't even sit, falling on the couch next to Sam, slumping against the cushions and breathing through his mouth.

“Dude, you reek,” Sam says, shoving at him.

Dean barely moves, blinking over at him through those long eyelashes, his gaze muddied with drink.

“Sssammy,” he slurs. “Y'came back.”

“It's Sam. Of course I did,” Sam retorts, ignoring the frisson of wrong that fizzles through his gut. “Where the heck else would I go?”

“Dunno,” Dean says softly, endeavoring to pull himself upright. His head lolls. He stares muzzily at the TV, where a policeman is droning on about the importance of home security. “Whaz'is?”

“Some show,” Sam says, trying for flippant.

Dean makes a noncommittal noise. He's apparently giving up on trying to sit up straighter, because he slumps back down and sags against Sam, all warm and smelling of booze and the deeper spice that always seems to rise from his skin. Something that's inherently _Dean_ , that Sam really shouldn't be scenting right now. Not after what happened earlier. Not when it makes him think of Dean mouthing up that girl's neck, wishing Dean would mouth up his instead --

“Dean,” Sam says sharply, his voice coming out too high. “You need to drink some water.”

“Nuh uh,” Dean says, mulish. “M fine.”

“You are not fine, you're slobbering all over me.” Sam is in no way letting on that he really doesn't mind. “Come on, sit up. I'll get you something to drink.” He starts shoving at Dean's shoulder.

“Thought you left,” Dean says suddenly.

Sam stops moving, Dean's shoulder bleeding heat into his palm.

“Thought you ran away, 'n left me here.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Sam says. He couldn't. He could never leave Dean. Even considering the ache that's crawling across his bones from every spot where they're touching, and the way he can't help thinking about Dean constantly -- who could kid themselves into believing it'd get easier with distance? Not Sam.

“You could, though,” Dean says. He sounds a little more sober, even though he's leaning into Sam hard enough to restrict Sam's breathing. “You could find a better life somewhere. Wouldn't blame you. 's enough wrong in the world without,” he gestures floppily at the house, at himself, “all this.”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Sam protests.

“Sure there is,” Dean says. Before Sam can even try to make him clarify, he's pulling away, sitting up, and standing on shaky legs. “'m gonna go lie down,” he says, his back to Sam, and he clomps away down the hall.

Sam watches him go, unsure of what just happened.

“Lie on your side!” he calls just before Dean's door shuts.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Sam is dozing in front of the TV when he hears Dean's door creak open. He's instantly awake, tracking the shadows until Dean coalesces in front of him, sleep-mussed and still a little drunk, rubbing at his eyes.

“Sammy,” he says, like he's surprised to see him.

“Hey,” Sam replies softly.

“I thought you were back. Also thought I might've dreamt that part,” Dean says. He shuffles in to plop on the couch, squinting at the TV. “Fuuuck, that's bright,” he says in distaste. “What the hell are you watching?”

Sam has no idea. He shrugs, and shifts on the couch so he can see Dean more clearly. “You okay?” he asks, not really expecting an answer.

“Yeah, I --” Dean stops, and gusts out the rest of his breath in an booze-tainted sigh. “No,” he says. His forehead wrinkles, and he bites at the inside of his lip, obviously gearing up to say something.

Sam has a ridiculously hard time tearing his eyes away from Dean's mouth once he gets stuck there, but Dean isn't even trying to meet his eyes. Suddenly, Sam is worried. Was it the note? Because he left? Oh _fuck_ , did the girl tell Dean she saw him watching?

He fidgets with a string on his jeans, and waits for the axe to fall.

“Does it really bother you that much?” Dean suddenly asks.

Sam blinks. “Huh?”

“When I bring girls back," Dean says, still not looking at him. "Seems like it bothers you, a lot. Does it really? 'Cause I could go to their place, but it's pretty awesome just bringin' 'em here where there's no parents to worry about, 'cause their parents tend to get really, well, y'know. I never thought you cared, and -- well,” Dean is babbling, and Sam is flabbergasted. “But if you really do care then -- God, please say something. I'll stop. I don't want you to --”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts him, but when those green eyes turn all pleading and wide to his, he can't for the life of him think of what he'd wanted to say.

“I just don't want you to hate me,” Dean says in a rush, then tenses up, withdrawing like he didn't mean to say it. He probably didn't. This is more real talk than Dean has instigated in the history of ever, and Sam would be impressed if he weren't so completely floored.

He's gaping. He knows he looks stupid, but --

“How in the hell could I _hate_ you?”

_You, of all people._

Dean's jerky little shrug is full of self-loathing. Sam wants to fly forward and hug his brother until Dean realizes there is nothing that could happen to make Sam even _dislike_ him, let alone detest him.

“Dude, no, I don't -- it's _fine_ ,” Sam says, exasperated and so close to just telling Dean why it's fine. All of the reasons why. _Because that's all I'll ever get_ , he suddenly wants to tell Dean. It's welling up in him like he's gonna barf or something. _It's vicarious and sad,_ he'd say, _but I like to watch you. Hear you. Know you're finding pleasure with somebody, anybody. Sure, it hurts, it hurts like hell, but it's better than nothing at all_.

 _I want you to feel good_ , Sam wants to tell him.

But he can't. Ever.

_Because you kissed me like you meant it two months ago, even if you thought I was someone else, and I will never do anything to jeopardize any slim chance of having that again._

Dean looks like he doesn't believe that it's really all right. Sam doesn't blame him. God knows what's running across his face right now. So, he glances away, back to the TV screen, because he has no idea what else he can say.

“She was hot, though, right?” Dean says out of the blue, and Sam has to laugh.

“Yeah, Dean, she was pretty hot.”

Dean chuckles, low in his throat, and Sam's balls tighten up without his permission.

“Man, and she had legs for _days_ ,” his brother says. “The best.” Sam bites the edge of his tongue, because he can't say, _yeah, and the way you got between them was even better_.

“What do you like in your girls, Sammy?” Dean asks him. Sam can't help the way he looks at Dean, his eyebrows nearly disappearing up into his hair. That phrasing, Jesus. _My girls? Like, you think I've had multiple -- or any -- Dean, I'm not you._

But Dean's just looking at him expectantly, so Sam stammers out, “Uh, I dunno -- light brown hair, light eyes, pale,” _freckles, long lashes, lithe muscles_ , “flexible, got a sense of humor... I mean, what? Girls are,” and he gestures helplessly.

Dean laughs. “Yeah, they sure are.”

Sam thinks he might have gotten off easy, until Dean speaks up again.

“What's the furthest you've gone?”

He doesn't even look at Dean this time. “What,” he says flatly to the TV.

“Come on," Dean ribs him, digging an elbow into his side, right over the scar. It's hidden by clothes, but Sam still feels the contact like a brand. His muscles are still just a little bit sensitive around where they'd been shorn. He makes a noise of protest.

“I don't wanna talk about this stuff, Dean.” _If we keep talking about sex and I hear it in your voice and smell you and feel you right next to me, I will pop a woody in these super thin pants and then you'll_ know _. I really don't want you to know._

Not to mention Sam has done exactly nothing, with any girl. He's pretty much an all-around virgin. Dean doesn't need to know that, either.

“Have you even kissed a girl?” Dean asks teasingly, and Sam is sure his face is scarlet.

“Yes,” he hisses. He hasn't, but he's kissed Dean -- and if Dean truly doesn't remember, then Sam can lie. He can quote from sensory experience and say it was a girl, even if he's never wanted any girl this badly.

“Well, how was it?” Dean prods.

“Wet,” Sam replies snippily, just to see Dean throw his head back and laugh. The line of his throat in the light of the TV is almost worth this entire mess.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says again, still chuckling, “what else?”

“Why the fuck does it matter?” Sam snaps, knowing that'll just goad Dean on and not even really caring. It's late, he's tired, he's sick of this whole thing, and just being _near_ Dean throws his entire being out of whack.

Dean blinks. “It -- doesn't, I guess.” Wait, what? This is not the reaction Sam was expecting. Dean says, “I was just -- y'know what, forget it. It's late. We should, we should sleep.”

He stands abruptly, reaching for the remote. He bends, his ass right there, toned outlines in his flannel pj pants.

Sam swallows, and looks away.

He needs to put a stop to this. It's already gotten out of hand. Dean doesn't deserve to be objectified like this, not by his virginal rake of a brother -- not by his brother, period. Sam is sick. He _feels_ sick, huddled there on the couch, in the sudden blackness when the TV winks off.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” Dean mutters on his way past. That somehow makes it worse.

 

* * *

 

Lying in his bed in the dark, Sam despairs.

It was only a kiss, two whole months ago. Dean didn't even mean it, he didn't, and now --

Oh, God.

How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss.

 

* * *

 

The next few days are torture. Sam goes to school and zones out, taking notes he can't read later, studiously avoiding any thoughts that may lead to thinking of Dean. He can't think about what happened, he can't wonder what might happen.

He exists in a state of constant, buzzing arousal, barely managing to keep his dick tamed during the school days. In the evenings, he holes up in his room. He and Dean don't even eat dinner together anymore.

Sometimes, he wonders what Dean thinks of it all, but then he realizes that wondering things like that just makes the ache worse.

On Thursday, he comes home later than usual; not by choice, but because a teacher held him up to ask him about his recent quiz grades. _I'm concerned_ , she says, and Sam almost laughs in her face. There is so much more going on in his head than polynomials.

When he shoves open the front door, though, he's greeted with a _delectable_ smell. He stops in his tracks to sniff the air. Something wonderful is cooking.

Sure enough, he can hear banging coming from the kitchen. Sam follows his nose, but has stop short in the doorway, because _damn_.

Dean is wearing cargo shorts, an apron, and nothing else. He hasn't noticed Sam yet, too busy gingerly removing a dish from the oven. He's got flour on his cheek, down his arm -- actually, there's flour everywhere, but Sam only just noticed it. He's too busy trying to convince himself he doesn't want to drag Dean into a kiss that would turn into licking every splash of what looks like marinara sauce from Dean's skin, right there on the kitchen floor.

Before he can catch his breath, or stop gaping, Dean notices he's there. “Sammy!” He beams. “I think I made chicken parmesan pot pie!”

Sam can't stop staring, and Dean's smile falls before he can scramble his wits together.

“Sam?” he queries, his fingers finding the apron and tugging on it. “You okay?”

Shit, he has to smile. He has to snap out of it. Sam shakes himself and says, “Yeah." It might sound a little too breathy, but he covers it by crossing the kitchen floor and peering into the steaming dish. Inhaling over it fills his nose and lungs with the best smell that's ever been in a kitchen of theirs.

“Dude, this smells amazing,” Sam practically moans, turning to Dean with a smile.

Dean is _blushing_ , a red flush staining his cheekbones and _omigod,_ spreading from his clavicles down beneath the apron. Sam bites the inside of his mouth a little and hopes Dean doesn't notice.

He doesn't. He's too busy cutting his eyes to the side. “Yeah, well, it needs to cool,” he says gruffly. “Go do your homework or something. I'll tell you when it's ready.”

Sam stumbles to the side when Dean brushes past, avoiding his brother's flour-stained shooing hands even though he really wants the touch to land.

He's halfway down the hall before he realizes: _Dean cooked dinner for us. He cooked an actual meal_.

Now it's a grin that won't go down, instead of an erection. Sam feels silly, but there's no one to see him looking so loony alone in his room. Dean _cooked._  There's something welling up in Sam's chest that he hasn't felt before, and a warmth that tingles down to his toes.

Man, he can't wait to taste that pot pie.

 

* * *

 

Sam can _not_ concentrate on his homework. Every breath hauls in more of that delicious smell, until he's practically vibrating with the anticipation of sitting down to a home-cooked meal _with Dean_ , that Dean _made_. When Dean roars his name from the kitchen, Sam practically tears down the hall and slides in his socks like Tom Cruise, almost missing the door.

He stumbles through, takes in the scene before him, and can't believe his eyes.

Dean has set the table. With actual silverware. Sam has no idea where his brother found the set, or those place mats. The real porcelain plates were in the cupboards, Sam knew, they just haven't been using them -- but Dean used them, and there's a dinner set for two that's so homey and downright beautiful that Sam finds himself choking up.

Dean is wearing a shirt now, instead of the apron, and he's watching Sam pretty intently. Sam is probably flushing a stark crimson, but he slides in and sits down, his eyes darting from the steaming, sectioned concoction to his brother's face and back. As always when Dean is being Dean, Sam has no idea what to say.

“This looks amazing,” he finally manages.

“It's nothing special,” Dean says, but he's faintly smiling. Sam just quirks an eyebrow at him, scooping up a piece. It hits his tongue, and _damn_. He moans like he's coming right then and there. He had no idea Dean could cook like this.

When he glances up at his brother, Dean is staring pointedly down at his plate, and his whole face is beet red. Then, Dean lifts his fork and tastes it, too, and his eyes roll back. “Oh, god,” he groans. “This is fucking _great_.”

Sam surreptitiously palms his dick through his jeans under the pretense of wiping away nonexistent crumbs.

As much as he's trying to savor the taste, and the moment, the rest of the meal flies by. He and Dean practically attack their plates, they each have thirds, and by the time they're full to bursting the sun has gone down. The dish is mostly empty.

Dean is first to push away from the table. He takes his plate over to the sink, and he's scraping it clean when Sam finally musters the energy to move. Their shoulders brush when Sam steps up beside him.

Dean smirks over at him.

“Downright orgasmic shit, am I right?” he crows.

“Yeah, Dean. You -- wow,” Sam says, shaking his head. He still can't believe how perfect it was. “It was incredible.”

“Heh.” Dean runs a hand up the back of his neck. “It was just this recipe I found. I wasn't even sure we had the ingredients, and I had to run to the store twice, and when I tried to --”

Sam can't even contain how much he loves his brother in that moment, so he catches one arm around Dean's neck as he rambles and tugs him in.

Their lips meet. Dean cuts off with a sharp gasp, freezing in place. He's so _warm._

One instant of bliss.

Then, Sam realizes what he's done.

“Shit,” he whispers against Dean's lips, and flings himself away down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Dean's pounding on the locked bedroom door. “Sam, open up!”

Sam hides beneath his pillow, tears streaming into his sheets, trying to gulp in gasping breaths through his cheap cotton sheets. He can't even answer, let alone get up to unlock the door. His gut is in knots. He doesn't want Dean to hear his voice crack, or see him all bloated and red from crying. Doesn't even want Dean to _know_ that he's crying.

Shit. _Shit_ \-- he didn't want Dean to know anything.

“Sammy,” Dean says, softer, and there's a thunk like his forehead meets the wood. Sam hiccups, muffled by the pillow, clenching it so tight his knuckles ache. He's still not breathing right, too fast and too shallow. On the verge of hyperventilating.

_I kissed him._

_Broad daylight, both of us sober, I fucking kissed him._

Sam drags in a sob.

There's no going back from this. There's no way Dean can let it go -- how do you move past kissing your brother? Your brother kissing _you?_ Sam hasn't been able to, and he's sure Dean won't -- he won't want what Sam wants. How could he? Sam's seen the girls Dean likes, what Dean has wanted, and it never looked like Sam. It's not fifteen and skinny and knobby and weird. It's not _incest_.

The ugly feeling that word inspires is perfect for how Sam feels about himself. There's a cramp in his belly, and he thinks he might throw up Dean's beautiful meal. That thought just makes him cry harder.

Then, he realizes Dean is talking through the door.

“Sammy, please come out. I'm not mad. I swear. I just – we gotta talk about this, man, come on. Please. I don't want you to think I'm mad. I don't want you to lock yourself away and never talk to me again." He's starting to plead in earnest. "Come on, Sam, _please --"_

Sam rolls out of bed, unlocks the door, and flings it open. Dean is standing right there, like he was leaning up against it, and he stumbles a little. He's startled, pale. Ethereal in the fading light. Sam would almost hate him for it if it weren't like a balm on his swollen eyes.

“You wanna talk, so talk,” he rasps, like he has any right to be pissy.

Dean blinks. Then he asks, so low Sam almost doesn't catch it: “Did you mean it?”

That does not compute.

“What,” Sam asks, not really a question. It hisses from his lungs.

“Did you,” Dean presses in to Sam's space, “mean that?”

Sam has to look up at him, though not as much as he might have even just one month ago. _Another growth spurt,_ he thinks, removed.

Aloud, he says, “What, kissing you?” He cocks his head like it's a challenge.

Dean steps up to it. “Yeah,” he says. His eyes are forest green, intense in the low light.

This is Sam's chance to deny it all, to try and go back to some semblance of normal. He has a split second to wonder if he wants that, a shot at the way things were before he knew what Dean tastes like, before Dean knew that he knew.

It takes no time at all to decide that no, there can be no going back. Sam will take the bitter with the sweet.

“Yeah,” he says, barely any sound to the hungry syllable. The moment it leaves his lips, Dean leans in and captures them with his own, tugging Sam close, crushing their bodies together in a clash of heat and skin and oh, the scent of him this close. Sam lights up like a fire poured down his throat, from his lips to the soles of his feet and through every part of him. He grunts when their chests collide, but it turns into a noise of pure heat and wonder when Dean just tilts his head and slots their mouths together perfectly.

This is what it's like to kiss Dean, Sam thinks in a daze, really kiss him.

What the --  _Dean is kissing me_.

“Oh, fuck,” he tries to say, but only succeeds in opening his mouth, which Dean takes as an invitation. He darts his tongue inside, toying with Sam's. It's hotter than that drunken peck two months ago ever had any hope of being -- because Dean is sober and in control, and he's _so_ _goddamn good at this._ Sam has no idea what he's doing, this is only his second kiss _ever,_ and he's drowning beneath the onslaught with his hands gripping at Dean's shoulders, his neck, his hair.

He's making noise against the wet of Dean's mouth, mewls and disbelieving murmurs that Dean answers, "Mm-hm," with another swipe of tongue. With every other breath, Dean is moaning, too, sharp little sounds that are more than Sam's ever heard from him before.

Each one of those sounds slams straight down into his dick, making him twitch and get hard as nails and above all, _want_. He wants Dean so badly in that instant that it's mindlessly terrifying, and downright transcendent. He'll never be the same for wanting his brother this much.

The kiss breaks, both of them panting, Sam's dick stiff and insistent against the thigh that Dean is grinding up between his legs.

“Dean?” Sam manages breathlessly. So tangled in his brother, it's the only word he knows.

“Wanted you,” Dean says, every syllable hot against Sam's lips, “since forever. Knew it was wrong, I fought it, but I got a taste and I couldn't fucking forget it. I tried, Sammy, I tried --" and they're kissing again, Sam overwhelmed and just attacking Dean's mouth, riding the solid weight of Dean's thigh with wanton desperation. Rough breaths from Dean's nose are filling Sam's frantic inhalations, surrounding him inside and out. He feels like he might just come right here; this is so much more than he ever hoped to have -- and Dean must sense it, because he's pulling away, holding a gasping Sam at arm's length.

“Do you really,” Dean begins, but Sam cuts him off with a slightly crazed, “Don't be stupid, Dean, _yes_ ,” and he tries to lunge for Dean's lips again.

But Dean is smirking. Oh, fuck in Heaven, that's never looked so hot.

“What,” he begins, and is that Dean's voice? Sam's never heard him sound like this, lust-driven and playful, “have you done,” and his hands are everywhere, raking through Sam's hair, smoothing down his side, one thumb along his cheekbone and down to pull at his lips, “with a girl?”

Sam leans hard into Dean's touch. “Nothing,” he finally admits, and captures Dean's thumb between his teeth.

Dean stills. “Nothing at all?”

“Nope,” Sam says around the thumb, and sucks it into his mouth, tasting residual dinner and Dean.

Dean's eyes darken when he does.

“Was I your first kiss?” he asks.

Sam's involuntary flinch and sudden lack of eye contact say it all.

His brother sucks in a breath.

“God, that's hot.” Dean's thumb is torn from Sam's mouth and the other four fingers guide his chin up for another scorching kiss.

When this one breaks, Sam can only stare dazedly up at Dean. He's harder than he's ever been, dancing along the edge of orgasm, only the incredulity of the entire situation keeping him from losing it all over himself. It's seriously like a dream. He keeps expecting to wake up.

Then Dean is running a hand up under Sam's shirt like he's going to take it off, he's going to _see_ , and it's like Sam has been doused with cold water. He stumbles backward into his room, nearly hitting his bed, arms tucked around himself. He's shaking his head, hard.

“Hey,” Dean soothes, reaching for him, “hey. What's up?”

“Don't want you to see,” Sam mumbles, hating himself.

“See -- what, your scar? Dude,” Dean admonishes gently, and Sam stares at him. This evening just keeps getting harder and harder to believe.

“I dressed that wound, remember?” Dean tells him, and Sam thinks he does remember. Vaguely. He was pretty out of it at the time. “Sam, I've seen all your scars -- I've got worse ones. Remember that poltergeist in Houston? The gouge all down my leg from where it grabbed me an' threw me into a pile of branches? Oh, yeah, and that werewolf last summer?” Sam's eyes widen. Dean chuckles. “Nah, didn't get me -- do I look furry to you? -- but a rusty nail sure fuckin' did."

Sam snorts.

“Point is,” Dean continues, “that's the life. You're gonna get marked up." His eyes smile as he says, serious and soft, "Good thing you're lookin' at the one person who ain't never gonna judge you for it.”

All Sam can do is swallow, tears swimming in his eyes. Of course. Of course Dean wouldn't care. He's been with Sam through it all. There's no reason, not a single one, that Sam has to be self-conscious with his brother. Dean practically raised him. If there's anyone who will love him despite every and anything at all, it's Dean.

An abortive sob shoves its way up his throat.

Dean's eyes brim to match.

“Sammy,” he says, clearly hurting for him, and Sam propels himself forward into Dean's arms.

His next breath hauls in all the scents of his brother, and all the sense of home and family and longing choke him up along with the release of his self-loathing. Next thing Sam knows, he is sobbing uncontrollably into Dean's chest. He's shaking, but Dean is holding him tight, soothing him through it. The rumble of his nonsense shushing echoes through Sam's bones. There's a strong hand in his hair, holding him close, another encircling his back. Sam has never felt so safe.

The relief of it drains him as he cries and cries until he's shivering, sniffing, trying to catch his breath. Tears and other nastiness are sticking Dean's shirt to his chest.

Sam sucks in a shuddering breath, and settles.

“Sorry,” he says into Dean's chest. It comes out high and wobbly. He giggles kind of hysterically. “Shit, I ruined your shirt --”

“Psh,” Dean says dismissively. "It's all good. But, are you?” He shoves at Sam's shoulders until Sam backs up and looks at him, sniffing.

Dean looks kind, but serious. “Are you okay, Sam?” he asks.

The lump rises in Sam's throat again. God, how does he deserve this?

All he can do is nod, but a smile breaks out across his face so wide that it hurts. Dean's answering grin just makes him smile even wider.

“Ow,” he laughs, rubbing at his face.

Dean laughs, too, and squeezes Sam's side. _I got you,_ it says. And he does.

“Do you, uh.” Sam starts, and stops, because he honestly doesn't know where he was going with that. He feels gross, all swollen and snotty. He sniffs, and starts to withdraw. The barest millimeter of space between them is unbearably cold.

“Oh, no you don't,” Dean says, and catches his hands. “Not until I've seen some skin, Sammy boy.” He's teasing, of course, and it's so corny that Sam snorts at him and allows him to tug the shirt up over his head.

Dean's eyes rake lines of heat up and down his body. He whistles, and Sam's muscles contract with the force of his sudden flush.

“Damn,” Dean says softly.

Sam bites his lip. “That bad, huh,” he says around it.

Dean's look says _shut up_ and also _you know exactly how you look to me_ , and in that moment Sam feels fucking _hot_.

When Dean reaches for him, Sam falls against him, and sighs into his brother's mouth.

At some point while they're kissing, they fall back atop the bed. Sam is done trying to reign in his incredulity, overwhelmed and absolutely loving it. Even if this turns out to be a hallucination, imposed upon him by some monster or lead paint on the walls, he will not allow himself to enjoy it any less than he is right now -- that is to say, completely.

“Dean,” he says again. He'll never stop saying it. “Dean --”

In the space between motion and thought, Dean moves. He takes hold of Sam and rolls them over together so that Sam is sprawled atop him, straddling his hips. There's heat snugged up right where Sam has always wanted it most, and a hard line growing harder as they gaze at one another.

Sam rolls his hips experimentally. When Dean gasps, Sam can't help his smirk.

“Aw, stop with that face, already,” Dean says. “Makes you look like me. 's not right.”

“Oh?” Sam challenges, rocking forward again in one slow, dirty roll. “You never touch yourself?” He grabs at Dean's hands, plasters one to his hip and presses the other firmly into his crotch so Dean can feel what he does to Sam. He definitely does, because he swallows hard and those fingers knead in so damn deliciously that Sam can't help his whine.

And then Dean looks up at him smugly and says, “You know I do.”

The noise Sam makes at that would be embarrassing if he weren't thisclose to coming in his jeans against Dean's hand. He probably would have, just made a mess of himself and this whole situation, but Dean's fingers clamp down over him and Dean says ever so soft and calm, chastising, “Ah, ah, ahhh...”

Sam sucks in air and bends in half, nose to nose with Dean. “You are too -- everything, for your own good,” he growls with heat, his lips brushing Dean's with every word.

“Yeah?” Dean asks. His tone is joking, but his eyes are serious. It's like he doesn't know, he really doesn't know what kind of an effect he has on Sam.

All Sam can do is laugh at him and nod, sighing, “Yeah.”

They meet halfway for a kiss that Sam follows with a dirty grind into Dean's lap.

“You're everything to me, too, y'know,” Dean says roughly, running a thumb over Sam's cheekbone. Sam leans into the caress.

_Now, I do._

“I mean it, Sam,” Dean says. He lightly shoves at Sam until Sam gets the message and moves backward, shuffling til he's on the bed, then more until Dean is satisfied and Sam is on his back.

His brother moves over him, dark eyes and intent.

“You're everything to me,” Dean says, his voice almost too hoarse to be heard.

Leaning over Sam, he presses a firm kiss to the little bit of flesh just below Sam's bellybutton. _This part, I love_ , Sam knows he's saying.

The next kiss is a little nip on his side, just at the base of the long, jagged scar. _This part, too._ Sam feels it like a point of sunlight there on his skin.

Dean kisses all up the length of the scar, nearly to Sam's armpit. By the time he moves to Sam's nipple, Sam is squirming and panting. He wants to beg Dean for something, anything, but his mind is whirling in aimless arousal and can't think of what to say.

“Feel good?” Dean breathes. The humid words harden Sam's nipple to a taut little nub. When Dean's tongue flicks against it, Sam can't believe how sensitive it is.

He cries out. “Ah! Dean...”

Dean chuckles, dark and pleased. “Good,” he says, then moves over the other one.

By the time he's capturing Sam's lips again, Sam is ravenous for him, eating at Dean's mouth and swallowing the surprised laugh he earns in the process. His whole body is alight, he's burning up. He needs to come _right now_ \-- his cock is harder than it's ever been, snug between Dean's body and his own.

Every time Dean moves, Sam feels like he could fly right over the edge and never come down again.

“Icarus,” he says without thinking.

Dean pulls back, confused.

“It's like Icarus,” Sam pants, pulling him back down, “and you're the fucking sun,” he breathes, latching his teeth on Dean's earlobe.

Dean grunts, and ruts. His cock is just as hard as Sam's.

Suddenly, Sam remembers that _he hasn't seen it yet_.

“Hey,” he pants, “get these off.” He paws ineffectually at Dean's jeans. He can't reach the zipper, but he makes very clear what he wants until Dean clambers off the bed, and undoes his fly.

The jeans sag down his slender hips. He's wearing threadbare boxer briefs, and while the jeans continue to slide, Dean gives Sam a look that's clearly asking, _These, too?_ as he toys with the elastic waistband.

“Those, too,” Sam whispers, dry-mouthed.

Dean makes a show of it, the bastard, gyrating his hips just a little and biting his plump bottom lip. Sam's eyes are riveted on the thatch of hair being revealed, then the thick base of Dean's cock, and then when the head springs free, Sam finds himself salivating. Like he's known all along, he's got to get that in his mouth.

“Come here,” he says with no sound at all.

His fingers, when they find Dean's hips and draw him even closer, are shaking – but Sam doesn't give Dean time to ask yet again if he's okay. He closes one hand around Dean's cock, feeling the heft and heat of it, and leans in closer. Dean is saying something, sounds like “You know you don't have to”, like Sam hasn't been waiting for this opportunity for so long.

Sam ignores him, and sucks the tip between his lips.

Dean makes a strangled noise, his hands finding Sam's hair. He doesn't tug, isn't rough, but he does hold on. Sam likes it. He knew he would. He likes the salty-skin taste of Dean's cock, too, and runs his tongue through the slit to collect the bitter precome there. Dean whimpers.

Opening his mouth wider, Sam pulls more and more of his brother's cock in until the head is bumping the back of his throat. It feels much more alive than anything he's ever practiced with. It feels right. Sam draws off, then sucks Dean back in, experimenting with pressure and suction and depth until he's figured out a rhythm, and Dean's bowed legs are trembling.

Sam pulls off. “Come over here, get on the bed,” he says. “Lie on your back.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says jauntily, an effect somewhat ruined by how harshly he's breathing. The sight of him unfolding back against the bed is something Sam drinks in, and never wants to forget. All that gorgeous skin, spattered with freckles that Sam knows Dean hates but that Sam thinks are just as perfectly _Dean_ as the rest of him.

Leaning forward as gracefully as he can, Sam kitten-licks at Dean's cock. He laps at the head until Dean moans pitifully, tossing his head against the sheets.

“Who knew you'd be such a tease?” he whines.

Sam hums around the flesh in his mouth, drawing another noise out of Dean, and pulls off just long enough to say, “Like you haven't been teasing me for weeks, you little hypocrite.”

“Who you callin' little?” Dean asks, strained.

“Not this part of you, that's for sure,” Sam mutters, and envelops Dean's cock again.

He draws out the experience, not because he wants to make Dean suffer, but because there's just so much he wants to try. He's never had a dick in his mouth, but he'd consider Dean's to be a prime specimen, because so far as he can tell there's nothing wrong with it.

Tongue and lips, suck and tease. Again and again, until Dean has clearly lost the ability to form actual words. He's flushed, tossing his head and muttering, when he's not raising his voice in helpless moans that curl right around Sam's balls.

Sam takes pity on him. “Do you wanna come?” he asks, amazed at how much deeper his voice has gotten.

A groan is what he gets in reply.

Renewing his task in earnest, Sam puts everything he's ever learned about this to the test. He tongues the head, swirls around it, suckling the slit and the sensitive underside. He licks Dean like a lollipop, mouthing up and down the side of the shaft.

He listens for what makes Dean curse loudest, and does that with more intensity.

Sam works until his lips begin to go numb, slack with spit and effort. His own erection has gone down slightly, but when Dean's diaphragm starts heaving and his noises become more desperate, Sam grabs between his own legs, throwing his fly open. His cock takes interest right away.

He wants to come with Dean. He wants to make Dean come, now.

He hums around his brother's cock; first quietly, then louder and louder, and with all the suction his mouth has left Sam plunges Dean down his throat to the hilt.

Dean's shriek bounces off the walls. He wraps himself around Sam's head and comes spectacularly down Sam's throat, so deep that Sam can't even taste it. The sudden, flooding warmth makes him sputter, but he holds on, because _this_ is what he wanted.

_Oh, yes._

His hand on his own cock speeds up, almost -- there --

Sam comes, and the noises he makes spit Dean out of his mouth as he hunches over, splattered fluids and Dean's pubic hair pressed against his face. He shudders, nosing in, inhaling the strongest scent of Dean he's ever found.

“Hey,” Dean laughs shakily.

Hands lift him up. He's still wracked with aftershocks, every limb is a noodle, and the smile he gives Dean is so dazed and happy that Dean blushes.

Dean collapses to sit on the bed beside him, and leans into him.

“Good for you?” he murmurs.

With a peal of laughter, Sam throws his arms around his brother. “You,” he says, nosing for a messy kiss, “don't even have to ask.”

“I know I don't have to,” Dean says, ever obstinate.

They sit in warm, sticky silence. Sam breathes his brother in, still dizzy with disbelief.

His cock twitches.

“Aw, man,” he groans, burrowing deeper into the crook of Dean's neck.

He feels more than hears his brother's noise of curiosity.

“I could go again,” he mumbles.

“What?” Dean hauls him bodily backward, unearthing his face. “What was that?”

From his purely evil expression, he knows exactly what. Sam pulls a face. “Don't be a jackass,” he says.

“Jackass?” Dean exclaims, mock offended, a hand on his chest. “Why, Sam, I'm wounded.”

“I'll give you a wound,” Sam growls, and lunges.

He tackles Dean back on the bed and scrabbles for ticklish spots, evading Dean's arms as his brother laughs, and tries to squirm away. Years of putting up with the same thing from Dean give him an edge, and soon Dean is just lying there and taking it, reduced to a giggling mess.

Satisfied, Sam sits back.

Dean strikes. Quicker than anything, Sam is flipped on his back on the bed. He's stunned to inaction. Dean is merciless, his questing fingers tickling until Sam can't breathe, tears streaming down his face. “No,” he begs, “no more. Please.”

Dean grins like a shark down at him, still finding sensitive places on Sam's skin. “What was that?”

“Please!” Sam yells, writhing. He's trapped. “Can't breathe, I can't -- I can't breathe.” He's laughing too hard.

“All right,” Dean says, “then how about -- _this?”_ He flips Sam again, and pulls his hips up high.

Sam sucks in a breath, labored and too little oxygen. This -- he knows what this is, this is a _position_.

“Sam?” Dean asks. Sam realizes that once again, he didn't say anything fast enough.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he turns and looks at Dean over his shoulder. “What are you gonna do?” he asks, breathless. He hopes it's clear how much he wants anything Dean will give him.

Absently, Dean runs a hand down Sam's flank. He's staring at Sam's ass. “Oh, you know,” he says breezily, belying the size of his pupils, “stuff.”

“Stuff?” Sam asks wryly. “I was kinda hoping for... uh...”

Dean begins to pull Sam's jeans off his hips, slowly. Sam falls silent, tugging his lip between his teeth, watching Dean's face as Dean undresses him.

He's barely able to worry what his ass looks like to Dean when Dean's teeth sink into one cheek.

“Ah!” he yelps. “What the hell?” But Dean's tongue is laving over the mark, soothing, riling up his blood, and his indignation dissolves into a vocal shudder.

“Have you ever heard of rimming?” Dean asks him, muffled by distance. The puff of his breath is right next to Sam's crack.

“I -- uh -- yeah,” Sam stammers. He can't believe this is happening. “A little.”

“Ever thought about it?” Dean asks, then runs his tongue up the center of Sam before Sam can even answer. He doesn't lick _right there,_ not yet, but the sensation and the ghost of proximity still wriggle their way across all of Sam's nerve endings.

“Dean,” he whines.

“Is that a yes?” Dean murmurs, sure hands spreading Sam's legs even further apart.

Sam cants his hips, arches his back, and moans, _“Yes.”_

A single touch of Dean's tongue right to his little furl, and Sam's body lights up.

It's -- oh, it's so much better than it looks in porn. There are nerves there, sensitive almost to the point of pain, and Dean moaning while he tastes Sam there makes it even better. The point of his tongue is softer, more precise, than Sam's fingertip ever was, circling like he always wanted it to. Dean flattens his tongue, licks a long and dirty stripe up over everything.

Then he finds Sam's entrance again, and flicks his tongue _in._

Sam stiffens, grabbing at the sheets. “Do that again,” he demands. He barely recognizes his own voice.

Dean doesn't reply, just obeys, simulating something that makes Sam's mouth go dry. God, he can't even imagine what it would feel like to have Dean's _cock_ \--

and oh, fuck, Dean is driving in deeper with every thrust of his tongue, filling Sam more and more. It's the strangest sensation, both soft and firm, the dextrous muscle licking him open, wetting him so thoroughly. Dean has clearly done this before. It's not long before Sam is breathing out noise, working his hips over his brother's face. He can't get enough leverage. His jeans are trapping his knees.

But Dean moves again, and Sam doesn't care how well he can move. He could come just from this _._ He could die happy, right now, impaled on Dean's talented tongue.

Dean pulls back, panting. “Good?”

“Am I not making enough noise for you?” Sam retorts, shooting a look over his shoulder.

“I dunno,” Dean teases. “I kinda wanna hear you scream.”

Before Sam can even think of what to say to that, Dean ducks back in.

“Dean! _Oh_ ,” Sam blurts out, shocked, “yes,” because Dean is adding work-roughened fingertips to the mix, and the juxtaposition of those and his tongue is dancing along Sam's spine. Pleasure rises in waves. Sam can't believe he's so sensitive, regardless of having touched himself there before. Of course, Dean touching him would be different. Better.

Much, much better.

Dean works a fingertip in, all of his spit only easing the way a little, but Sam can tell that Dean knows not to try to go deeper without lube. He keeps the fingertip in, licking all around it, letting Sam clench around him and feel the fullness of it. Keeping it there at the very entrance means that all of the most sensitive nerves are being stimulated, twice over with Dean's tongue, and Sam can feel his orgasm brewing, fast.

He's whimpering with every breath. Some of the whimpers are meant to be Dean's name, but they come out as animal whines instead. Sam's fingers ache from clutching and dragging at the sheets. He's right on the precipice of coming, but something's holding him back.

Dean moves his fingertip, thrusting, subtle but crude.

He moans against Sam's tender skin, messy from using his mouth. “I wanna fuck you so bad.”

_There it is._

Every inch of Sam locks up when he comes, untouched, all over the bed.

Dean gets to hear him scream.

 

* * *

 

“How long has it been for you?” Dean asks him, when they're basking in afterglow.

Sam stares up at his ceiling. He knows what Dean's asking. He can feel every point where he's touching Dean, warm and right. Dean's fingers are tangling in his hair, slowly massaging his scalp.

“I think I was twelve,” he says. “I dunno... I just started thinking about it, and didn't stop.”

“I know how that is,” Dean says.

Silence stretches, Dean's fingers absently kneading Sam's scalp.

“Well?” Sam ventures. “What about you?”

Dean doesn't answer right away. His hand doesn't still, but he doesn't seem as relaxed as before.

“Come on,” Sam tries to reassure him with a laugh. “It can't be that bad. What, was I five?”

Dean snorts. “That's gross.”

“Well, then?”

A sigh, and Dean snuggles in closer. He's really cuddly, actually, now that Sam gets to be a part of this scene instead of enviously picturing it from another room. It burns a little that all those girls got to have this before he did, but at the same time, he doesn't begrudge Dean a single experience.

“I think I heard you the first time you found your dick,” Dean says. He presses a tiny kiss to Sam's skin. “You were kinda loud... no, don't, come on,” he says, grabbing at Sam and keeping him from rolling away in embarrassment. “All I'm tryin' to say is, it was hotter than it should have been.”

Sam cramps his neck trying to look at him.

“You were just a kid,” Dean says softly. “I thought, what kind of sick fuck must I be, wanting a kid?”

“You're only four years older than me,” Sam reminds him.

“I was old enough to know better,” Dean shoots back.

“Dean,” Sam says. When Dean won't pull back to look at him, Sam shoves at him until he does. “You are not sick,” Sam tells him. “Honestly, I don't see how we're supposed to have this any other way.”

Dean frowns. “Whaddaya mean?”

“Look at the way we live, dude.” Sam sighs. “Any which way you slice it, we were always heading here.”

“To a shitty rental?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam shoves at him. “Come on.” _All of the moving,_ he doesn't say. _All of the people we leave behind, every time. You make acquaintances and fuck buddies, but neither of us ever make friends, and there's no way in hell we'll ever be going steady with anyone when the longest we've lived in a place was three or four months._

_How can I have a meaningful relationship if I don't know anyone?_

“All right, all right.” Dean snuggles back in, and Sam lets him. “So we're destined to be, huh?” he says.

“Dunno about destiny,” Sam replies, “but I definitely think this is our bright side.”

“No wonder I could never see it before,” Dean says, heavy-handed sarcasm, but Sam knows he gets it.

Eyelids heavy, Sam is starting to doze off. “I couldn't look, it was killing me,” he murmurs. He hopes it makes sense.

His brother hums, a comforting weight in his arms. “I know what you mean.”

 

* * *

 

Twelve hours and thirty-five minutes ago, Sam Winchester came out of his cage.

This morning, waking up beside Dean, he's doing just fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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